


When We Were One

by auri_mynonys



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a political visit to Gondor, while Théoden is busy conferring with Denethor, Éowyn wants to explore the city of Minas Tirith but finds that no one will take her. She convinces Gríma to be her guide and guardian, and together they make their way into Minas Tirith posing as commoners - and as husband and wife. Éowyn thinks the guise is innocent enough, but finds that Gríma takes the ruse a bit more seriously than she intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We Were One

**Author's Note:**

> Rampant fluff with a hint of the angst to come. Eowyn is probably sixteenish here and Grima is roughly 29. Pre-betrayal of Rohan. A tharni is a silver coin used in the currency of Gondor - the actual worth of the coin is never named, so my pricing may be way off. My apologies.

The last thing Gríma son of Gálmód had intended to do while in Minas Tirith was to go exploring. He was a curious man by nature, and liked to learn; but everything he had wanted to see had been within the bounds of the Steward’s great palace at the pinnacle of the city, deep in its ancient library, where thousands of ancient scrolls sat waiting for his attentive eyes.

But fate had a way of playing with Gríma, throwing swift and sudden surprises at him when he wanted them the least. As much as he loved Éowyn, he had not wanted to be torn away from the library, from the scrolls and dust and quiet of that archaic place – not even for her.

But then she had told him that they would be alone; and not just alone, but disguised.  _Lovers_ , she’d said, her tone so offhanded, as if it were nothing.  _Commoners._

Gríma could have done without playing at being a commoner. He had spent enough time living in filth and wearing rags to last him a lifetime. But to play at being her husband – well, for that, he would do anything.

It was this and only this that had drawn him forth from the courts of the Steward and brought him out into the main city of Minas Tirith, out into the blinding sun and the roar of city life. It had been a bit much for him at first, the sounds and sights so overwhelming that he had nearly turned and run back through the gates; but with Éowyn’s arm slipped firmly through his, he felt he could do anything, could _be_  anything.

He had covered her golden hair himself, delighting in finally getting to run his fingers through the tresses he’d so longed to touch. He had braided her hair and pinned it as carefully as any handmaid, and covered her head with a dark blue cloth (it seemed they were common among women in this city) until not a bit of yellow could be seen. Even so, there was something very Rohirric about her, even in Gondorian garb. Her face spoke of wild winds and chiseled rock, of night rides on the backs of beautiful steeds and surviving in the midst of a desolate, never-ending grassland.

Gríma did not need any such disguise. He was, blessedly, much better suited to Gondor in looks than he ever was to Rohan. His black hair was quite common here, and went unquestioned as they wandered the streets together, eyeing market stalls and trying to avoid the sharp gazes of passing soldiers.

Éowyn had found him some servants’ garb, light blue and surprisingly comfortable. She had smiled when he’d come out in it, shy and embarrassed. “Blue is a good color for you,” she’d said. “You should wear it more often.”

He doubted that any color actually suited him, but was pleased that she seemed to like it; and more pleased still that her dark blue gown complemented his tunic. That she’d gone out of her way to make certain they matched delighted him more than was reasonable.

So here they were, wandering on the fifth level of Minas Tirith arm in arm as easily as if they did it every day; as if this was typical for them. Gríma did his utmost to seem unconcerned, but his heart was in his throat. If Éowyn noticed, she did her best to seem oblivious.

“It’s massive – this city,” she remarked, tightening her grip on Gríma’s arm. “I had heard it described before, but I never imagined it would be like this. It’s so beautiful!”

Gríma smiled fondly at her, reaching over to lay his fingers over hers. “It is indeed a marvel, my lady,” he said. “It has no equal in Rohan.”

“It has no equal anywhere,” Éowyn said, turning to stare as soldiers in smooth, flashing armor rode past. Gríma tugged on her arm, an irritable gesture; today at long last, he had her to himself, and he was going to keep it that way. She came back to his side without protest, and Gríma relaxed at once. “And so many people! Can you imagine living in a place this busy? Nothing would ever stay the same!”

_That would be a blessing,_ Gríma thought sourly. Rohan had been caught up in its ancient ideologies for far too long. Some progress might do it a world of good. “You would miss the grasslands,” he said instead, “And your horses.”

Éowyn sagged. “The fields of Pelennor are just outside the city’s walls,” she said, but halfheartedly.

“True,” Gríma agreed. He stopped by a fruit seller’s stand, picking up a peach and examining it. “But it would not be the same, and it would take much doing to leave the city to ride – particularly for you, my lady.” He reached into the purse at his hip, tossed the fruit seller a coin, and handed the peach to Éowyn with a smile.

She smiled back as she took it, lifting it to smell it as they walked on. “You would like it here, wouldn’t you?” she said. “With the library and the scholars here…”

“Yes,” Gríma said, wistfully thinking of the tower library full of ancient scrolls. “Yes, I imagine I would.”

Éowyn drew him from his reverie with a sudden slurp. The peach was very ripe, and juice was dripping down her chin and onto her hand. She made a small, indignant cry and hurriedly pulled her arm away, trying to hide the mess from him. He laughed and reached into his pocket, pulling free a handkerchief and gently wiping the juice from her chin. She blushed prettily and took the handkerchief from him, finishing the job herself. “Thank you,” she murmured, ducking her head shyly.

“It’s a messy fruit,” he said, biting back another smile. “A bit difficult to eat at times. But delicious.”

Éowyn nodded, absently dabbing at her lips as she took another bite. The sights and sounds of Minas Tirith seemed to have consumed her again. “Éomer and Théodred were going to go exploring,” she said. “They didn’t want me out in the city, though – not even with them.”

It took a great deal of willpower not to tell her that they were likely planning to go out whoring and carousing – not precisely the sort of activity they would want the girl who was (or who for all intents and purposes was like) their little sister attending. Instead, he said, “Éomer and Théodred are fond of you, my lady, but they still see you as a child.”

Éowyn frowned, but glanced keenly towards him. “And you, my lord?” she asked softly. “Do you see me as a child?”

Gríma swallowed heavily and licked his lips, trying desperately to keep his wavering gaze upon her face. “Hardly, my lady,” he managed, his mouth dry.

She smiled softly, and slipped her arm back through his, finishing the last remnants of her peach. She started to lick the juice from her fingers, delicately sucking it free of her fingers, and heat flared in Gríma’s veins, a terrible hunger roaring to life inside him.  _Dear lord. Oh, dear lord…_  He cleared his throat and looked away, frantically attempting to clear his head of every filthy image currently inhabiting his thoughts.

He glanced back at Éowyn, and decided that he needed to make her a constant gift of peaches when they returned to Edoras.

“Well, it doesn’t matter how they see me,” Éowyn said, laying her now peach-free hand on Gríma’s arm. “They can do all the exploring they wish without me; and I will do the same.” She smiled up at him. “Thank you for coming with me,” she added. “I know you were hoping to spend your day with the books in the library.”

“It’s nothing at all, my princess,” Gríma said, gently pulling his arm in closer. Her skirts brushed up against his leg as they walked, and he could feel the warmth of her against his side, so very close. “This is far more interesting, and likely more useful to your uncle. He certainly won’t be getting out to explore the city.”

“Pity,” said Éowyn, with a small sigh. “He would so love to see the markets here. There are so many things I’ve never seen before here. You could buy almost anything in the world here!”

Gríma had heard that the markets of Minas Tirith had once held goods from the whole of Middle Earth, before the great shadow began to stretch forth from Mordor. Now traders were afraid to make their way to Gondor, or could not; and the goods there were considerably less than he’d imagined. Still, the selection was far more impressive than any market in Rohan. Traders were scarce there, and foreigners grew ever more unwelcome. Gríma himself could attest to that. He frowned at the thought, staring idly off at a jewelry stall not far from where they stood. Perhaps things would be better for him if he stayed here in Gondor as a liaison for King Théoden. At least then he would not be ridiculed for his strange looks or foreign blood.

The jewelry seller snapped him from his thoughts with a shout. “You can come closer, if you want a better look,” he said, motioning to the glittering display beneath his tent. Éowyn turned to look, eyes widening in delight at the sight of the intricate metalwork and sparkling jewels. The seller smiled at her and looked back to Gríma. “Buy something for your wife,” he said. “So pretty a bride deserves a pretty little bauble, don’t you think?”

Gríma flushed, and opened his mouth to protest –  _she’s not my wife; she’ll never be my wife; oh lord, I wish she was –_ but Éowyn spoke up before he could. “Baubles have no particular value for me,” she said, “As my husband well knows. Have you any other items? Daggers, perhaps? Such beautiful work suggests a familiarity with all kinds of metal.”

Gríma was too busy choking on his own breath to stop her as she pulled him over to the stall, eager to examine the seller’s wares. She had called him  _husband_. Had she meant it? Would she even truly consider such a possibility? It had sounded so natural, rolling off her tongue like that. She hadn’t even blinked, or looked uncomfortable, or hesitated in the slightest. Did he dare to hope that she could ever think to have him?

“An interesting choice,” the seller was saying, arching a brow. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather leave the daggers for your husband? They won’t serve you in the house at all, you know.”

“I hardly see how a necklace or a set of earrings will do me any good, either,” Éowyn sniffed, looking over the baubles with a certain disdain. The jewels that had only moments ago delighted her had lost all their glamor at the seller’s remarks. “A dagger or a sword will keep me safe.”

The seller glanced at Gríma. “That’s what you have him for.”

Gríma couldn’t help himself; he laughed, a small burst of laughter that startled both the seller and Éowyn. He lifted a hand to his mouth and looked away, trying to stifle the laugh. “I think you will find my wife quite capable with both dagger and sword,” he managed. “And I would hardly deny her anything she desires. If you have anything worthy to show her, I would advise you do so. She’s also quite good with her fists, if you need further persuasion.”

The seller looked down at Éowyn’s hands – bruised and bloodied from a recent roughhousing with her brother. Éowyn did her best to look innocent, but couldn’t quite bite back her smile.

The seller raised his hands and turned away. “No need for that,” he muttered, grabbing an intricately carved box. “I have these most exquisite daggers, a few made by the Haradrim and acquired in friendlier days. You are not likely to see their equal anywhere.”

He opened the box. Éowyn gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. Gríma had rarely seen such naked longing on her face. Gríma cast a quick look over the daggers; they were indeed exquisite, with beautiful sheaths sparkling with jewels and shining red and gold in the sun. The blades were wickedly curved, and when Éowyn unsheathed one, it sparkled brightly under the light. Éowyn turned and gave it a few experimental slashes, smiling fiercely as it sliced through the air. “Ooh,” she breathed, running her finger along the flat of the blade.

Gríma traced the path of her fingers with his eyes, occasionally glancing up to look at her face. She was so entranced, he was momentarily certain she’d forgotten him. But then she spoke, very softly. “Grim,” she murmured. “I…”

He was at her side at once, his thoughts surging wildly at the nickname she’d bestowed upon him. She’d called him  _husband_ and given him a pet name in the space of fifteen minutes. She could have asked for anything in that moment, and he would have moved heaven and earth to give it to her. “It’s beautiful,” he said to her. He reached out and laid his hand on the small of her back – a bold move, an indecent move. She would probably have told him so, too, if they’d been at the palace, or in Edoras – but here, in the street, with the dagger between them and this ridiculous adventure, she accepted the touch without comment. “You want it,” he said softly, his mouth almost pressed against her ear.

“Yes,” she said. She sheathed it gently, staring at it as if she’d already lost it. “But it’s such a rare find – it must cost so much – ”

“You’re a princess, my lady,” he murmured, switching from the Common Tongue to Rohirric so the seller would not overhear. “You can have whatever you desire, no matter the cost.”

Éowyn narrowed her eyes and shook her head. Oh, she was infuriating. She was beautiful. It was absurd the way his heart leaped at every gesture she made. “No,” Éowyn said at last, also in Rohirric. “That isn’t fair. I just wanted to go exploring – I didn’t intend to buy anything, really. I’ll just give it back.”

“No,” Gríma said, taking her hand and stopping her. “At least let me ask what it costs.”

Éowyn bit her lip, the longing flaring in her eyes. “Well… I suppose it can’t hurt…”

Gríma smiled triumphantly and turned to the seller with his best ingratiating smile. “How much?” he asked in the Common Tongue.

The seller chuckled and held out his hand for the dagger, waggling his fingers. “More than you can afford, I’m sure,” he said. “Only a king could pay for daggers as good as these.”

Gríma stared unblinking at the seller, eyes bright and dangerous. “ _How much_?”

The seller shifted uncomfortably, but did his best to laugh off his discomfort. He withdrew his hand and folded his arms across his chest. “Five hundred  _tharni_ ,” he said.

Éowyn gave a tiny gasp. Inwardly, Gríma flinched. Such a lot of silver for such a small blade. The purchase was going to cost him dearly.

He glanced at Éowyn, and knew that it was worth it.

Éowyn, bless her, was not nearly so sure. “It’s just a dagger,” she said. “It can’t possibly be worth – ”

“It’s a dagger of special quality and rareness,” the seller said, glaring at her. He held out his hand again, more demanding this time. “If you’re going to question its worth instead of buying it, I’d like it returned to its case.”

Éowyn hung her head, abashed, and stepped forward, holding the dagger out to him. The sight of her sad eyes set fierce rage in Gríma’s blood. How dare this filthy seller be so bold as to make his princess sad? Gríma would have that dagger. He would see Éowyn smiling again, smiling because of him.

Gríma caught Éowyn’s wrist at once and held her back, never taking his eyes off of the seller. “Perhaps if you would consider three hundred…”

“Grim,  _no_ ,” Éowyn protested, stepping closer to him. He could feel the heat of her through his tunic, down to his very bones. Would she remember this day, he wondered, in the years to come – on the day that he would plead his case to her and beg her for her hand? Such kindly gifts were not soon forgotten, no matter what protests were offered. Gríma held firm, and held her firmer still.

The seller laughed and settled back in his stall, eyeing Gríma curiously. “Such a low offer for such a beautiful weapon,” he said. “Four hundred and seventy, perhaps, but no more.”

“There are chips on the sheath, and a jewel missing at the hilt,” Gríma said coolly. There were a few small imperfections, but nothing like the flaws he named; still, best to play them up in this negotiation. “Not to mention the steel used in the blade, which is low grade at best. I’d be a fool to pay about three twenty for that level of quality.”

“Three tw – ” The seller puffed up indignantly. “You insult me, sir. Four twenty, perhaps, but three twenty?”

Éowyn shook her wrist free of Gríma’s arm, stepping in front of him and shaking her head. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “Not for me. It’s so much money – please, it’s not worth it – ”

Oh, she was a jewel, his princess. Had there ever lived a woman so kind? Emboldened by her affection and her tenderness, he reached out and cupped Éowyn’s face in his hands, gently stroking her cheek. “To see you smile like that again, it’s worth every penny,” he said.

“I won’t smile,” Éowyn insisted. “I’ll just feel guilty. Please – you don’t have to do this for me – ”

“I know,” he said. And he did know, truly; Éowyn would never ask such a gift of him, would never expect it of him. She had never been that kind of woman. “But I want to.”

She swallowed hard. “Grim – ”

He sighed. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want it,” he said to her, smoothing the cloth that wrapped her hair back into place.

“I – ” Éowyn stared up at him, wide-eyed. “It’s not that I – ”

He smirked.

Her eyes narrowed, greenish gray and cold. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said crossly. “Of course I want it. But it isn’t worth paying the ridiculous price – and I don’t want you to put your money towards something only I will use. Imagine the books you could buy with that kind of money!”

Gríma shrugged. His silver coins would not go as far as she anticipated in purchasing old books; the library here was not given to selling, alas, and any street sellers with books would have mostly damaged or poorly translated items on hand. Better to spend his money here, on her, on that perfect, precious smile. “Consider it a present,” he said – a simple phrase for a hundred feelings that were anything but simple.

“Grim, no,” Éowyn pleaded, reaching up and taking his hand, still curved around her freckled cheek. “Please, I can’t ask you for something like that. I can’t.”

He looked her over speculatively, tilting his head. “It has been long since you have smiled the way you did when you first looked at that dagger,” he said. “Does it not please you? Would it not make you happier?”

She blushed. “It would make me happy,” she said. “But that you would even offer to purchase it for me is happiness enough.” She squeezed his hand and bit her lip. “Please,” she said. “It’s alright. Just let me put it back.”

Gríma studied her for a moment, trying to determine how greatly she would be disappointed; but her expression gave away nothing. Finally, he sighed and nodded. “Very well,” he conceded. “Give it back to him, then.”

Éowyn smiled and popped up on her toes to kiss Gríma on the cheek. He flushed a deep red at the touch of her lips, and watched her in awe as she floated over to the merchant and ever so reluctantly gave him back the dagger.

“Thank you, sir,” she said quietly. “It was a privilege.”

The seller took the dagger back from her with no small amount of surprise. “Oh, indeed,” he said. “It would be a privilege to own such a dagger, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes,” Éowyn said, turning away with a forlorn look in her eyes. “But I am afraid it is a privilege that belongs to someone else.”

Gríma watched her as she started to walk off. She looked so sad, as if she’d had a favorite toy taken from her by a meaner, older child. But she seemed resigned to walking away, and she turned to Gríma and held out her hand impatiently to him, motioning for him to come along. He sighed once more and hurried up behind her, never looking back at the seller. He was about to take her hand when the seller blurted out, “Three fifty.”

Gríma turned, brows arched. “Well, isn’t that an impressive price drop,” he said. “Three fifty. Why not three thirty?”

“Grim,” Éowyn said, exasperated, but despite herself, she looked hopeful.

“I am just being generous,” the seller said, nodding to Éowyn. “I hate to see so beautiful a lady left so sad. Three fifty. It’s not such a great amount, is it – to bring a smile to your lady’s face?”

Gríma pretended to consider, but the deal, as far as he concerned, was sealed. “Done,” he said, and approached the seller once more.

“Grim!” Éowyn exclaimed, hurrying after him. “Don’t – I said it was alright, really, I don’t mean for you to – ”

Gríma ignored her, catching her around the waist as she ran up to him. He pulled her to him, still protesting, as he handed his purse over to the seller, heavy with coins. “You should find the proper sum contained therein,” he said. “The dagger, if you please?”

The seller waved him off and proceeded to count, glancing incredulously between Gríma’s poor garb and the coins in his purse. When the proper sum was counted, he handed the purse back to Gríma, removing the dagger from its case and handing it to Éowyn. “Your dagger, my lady,” he said, with a small bow.

Éowyn took the dagger from him with all the awe of a faithful priestess receiving a gift from a god, fingers almost shaking as she lifted it from his hands and pulled it close to her chest. “I thank you, sir,” she said, inclining her head. She looked up at Gríma, her eyes both reproachful and pleased. “And thank  _you_ , sir,” she added, gently kissing him on the cheek once more. “You do me great honor with your gift.”

Gríma could not contain his smile. “Merely to accompany you is an honor far beyond my merits, my lady,” he replied. He glanced up at the sky, and noticed that the sun was near to setting; their presence would be required soon in the Steward’s hall. “Oh, dear,” he said. “We’ve lingered too long. We’ll soon be missed.” He glanced at the seller and spared him a brief nod. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he said.

“And you,” the seller agreed, staring curiously at him. “Safe travels to you both, wherever it is you’re going.”

Gríma kept his face impassive, gently pulling Éowyn in the direction of the palace. He had meant to remove his arm from her waist – he truly had – but Éowyn, still entranced by the dagger in her hand, slipped her arm around him and held onto him in turn, leaning her head against his shoulder as they walked. “You really shouldn’t have,” she said, but her expression belied the scolding; her smile was enough to out-shine the very sun.

Gríma glanced at her, her head still on his shoulder, and tried to calm his racing heart. “It was my pleasure, Éowyn,” he said. He hesitated. “If you wish to go out again tomorrow – ”

She smiled. “That would be lovely. If you don’t mind accompanying me again? You’re quite good at playing the husband, you know.”

Gríma tightened his grip on her hip and gave a small, enigmatic smile.  _One day, my princess,_ he thought, _I won’t be playing anymore._


End file.
